


Linger Longer

by PeachBriseadh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Embarrassment, Fae AU, M/M, dirkjake - Freeform, dryad jake, slamander dirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:05:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh
Summary: Dirk is a tired salamander just happy to finally be back home, but that feeling doesn't last long.





	Linger Longer

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't edited yet so here goes

You’re severely uncomfortable here. The city air is too brisk and bites through your clothes with sharp, frigid little teeth. Dirk Strider was not meant for the cold. The night air is also regrettably dry, lacking in the kind of dewy hydration needed to sustain your damp physiology. On top of the sheer lack of H2O, you can feel the heavy city pollution weigh against your slick skin like a toxic outer layer. Too much of it has you feeling nauseous and tired like a bought of food poisoning. 

The city you’re respectively being held captive in isn’t the most smaug filled trap you’ve ever been in, but it’s certainly not home. You’re here with your brother Dave and his fiance, Karkat. The conversation is fine and the bar isn’t too crowded, but Dave keeps shooting you anxious looks from the corner of his eye. You’re getting anxious because he thinks you’re getting anxious, and it’s making him anxious that you’re anxious. Shit. You need a break. You motion to him with two fingers against your lips, letting him know you’re going outside to smoke. He nods and points a finger toward the rear of the bar. You wrap your tail around your waist and pull your thick winter coat on, heading in the direction Dave pointed.

You bob and weave to the back of the building where signs direct you to a smoking area, a small courtyard hidden between adjacent sides of the surrounding buildings. Not much of a view. You immediately cozy up to the iron fire pit. You don’t actually smoke, haven’t for years actually, but you never told anyone you quit. You didn’t subscribe to that sort of self masturbatory bragging about quitting something you should have never picked up in the first place. You didn’t deserve praise for fixing a flaw you created. You kept the knowledge to yourself as a convenient scapegoat to break out when you needed to step back and get a handle on your perpetual social ambivalence. 

You come back out of your mind in front of the small fire pit that looks more like a trash fire with an elegant shell than a functional decoration. As you stare into the waning flame, it stares right back with sightless eyes, sad and trapped under the sooty grill holding it captive. It crackles in soft little hiccups, twisting around a few dry logs crammed into the gut of the iron drum base. You can feel it dying, crushed under the weight of the cold winter air, left out here to starve or suffocate, only to be unfairly rekindled the next night. Relatable. 

You reach a hand out towards the flame and it reaches back the way all flames are compelled to do with Salamanders, desperately stretching against its bonds to meet the slick red skin of your fingertips. It’s not that you can control the flames, not by definition, but you can communicate with them, feel them. When you focused past the grating inner-city din, you can pick up it’s voice. Like sound reaching your ears through deep waters. Fire always spoke in urgent whispers, like a friend with a secret.

A few regulars eye you cautiously as you peer down at the flame through your shades, human and mythos alike. Salamanders didn’t usually show their faces this far inland, the climate simply doesn’t support your physiques. You would much rather be facilitating your biological need for wet and warmth than be here. The fire at your fingertips whispers to you again, hungry for your attention.

You bend forward and flatten a palm along the hot grate above the fire, feeling the flames lick and rub at your skin like a cat begging to be pet. You close your eyes and will warmth into the dying flame. It flickers your trademark amber and quivers, stretching to an impressive height through the iron. It covers your cheeks and lips with warm, feather light touches. You tune out the collective gasps and mumbling from the smokers around you as the familiar cinnamon honey scent of tame fire fills your lungs. Your hair dances around your face, caught in it’s heated little tailwinds, and you let yourself relax into the shared warmth. It lays soft kisses under your eyes and settles back down, curling around it’s logs for a cozy nap on a belly full of hot Salamander Magic. You let a small smile rise on your features as you take your hand back. The little flame cleaned your palm of any soot, and you’re thankful for it. Saves you a trip to the bathroom to wash up. 

You settle your features and head back inside, feeling just a little lighter. 

You must smell like a bonfire when you come back inside, because Dave gives you a knowing little smile and nods. The population in the bar has nearly doubled while you were on your little break. You’ve got a week left of this and frankly, you’re just not up to it at present. You tell Dave you’re turning in early and walk the four blocks back to his apartment. Dave is a lunatic for staying here of his own volition, but you understand why he does it.

Christmas comes and goes, then New Years. It’s a pleasant enough time, but you’re homesick and ready to leave by the end of your three week vacation. You’re very excited to get back to you own house and it’s sticky tropical humidity and shit. It’s exhausting and costly for a Salamander to purchase skin care treatments to fight the city’s constant pollution. You hated needing to ritually apply succors to the smooth velvety skin of your legs, arms, back, and tail. Not to mention needing to ask for help applying it to unreachable areas. No thanks.

The flight back home to the coast couldn’t possibly be more exaggerated in length and shear physical inconvenience. You fidget with your tail between uncomfortable rotations of restless sleep and aching nightmares about being that tiny trapped flame, destined to die and be reborn over and over again. Other than one unpleasant moment of a human kid grabbing the end of your tail as you walk down the squashed center isle of the plane, your trek back home is mercilessly uneventful. The drive from the airport to your house flies by in a blur of familiar greens and sandy beaches.

Your shoes are off before you even get inside your damn house. You whistle a tune, hands too full of your own shit to dig out your keys, and the locks slide apart with a clean little clinking sound. Toeing open the front door, you shimmy inside, turning sideways to fit your baggage girth through the doorway. Your feet slap appreciatively against the cool stone floor, god dammit you missed not needing footwear. You discard your shit unceremoniously onto the guest room bed and leave it there to deal with later. You also need to air the house out, but fuckall if you’re going to do that now. You take a deep breath, luxuriating in your familiar scent of cinnamon and orange spice. It’s nice to move without being swaddled in a thick ass jacket or the grey condensed pressure of city smog. 

By the time you slide the back door open, you’re practically wagging your tail. You walk down the stone steps, two at a time, and throw off your shirt somewhere over the hedge. Later, you think. Finally, you reach the pool at the bottom of the steps, a man made, clear water pond lined with smooth river rocks. You walk right in without missing a step, and sink to the muddy silt at the bottom. Your skin practically hums in delight, breathing in the water around you and opening up the gills at your jaw that have sat closed and irritated for three fucking weeks, save for showers, and you sigh into the water. You lounge around in the wet earth until your stomach rumbles under the water. You refuse to torture yourself with airline food, so you effectively haven’t eaten in almost 20 hours. Dammit

You climb the stairs back up to your house, rejuvenated and ready to get your grub on. You cleaned out all your perishables before you left for Dave’s, so a trip to the market in town is necessary. You don’t mind, it’s a decently short drive and the shop owner likes that you don’t waste his time with benign chatter like most locals. You throw on some shorts and a shirt, equip your shades, wrap your tail around your waist, and settle into the driver's seat for the scenic trip into town.

As you pull into the small parking lot, you notice one of the shops along the strip has been newly occupied, a UHaul parked off to the side of the massive front window. RIP in pieces Blockbuster. You watch for a second as you unbuckle your seat belt. A young woman sweeps a spot on the floor then turns and points, presumably giving direction to someone further into the building. You open your door and step out onto the hot cement. After a few beats, a large box comes walking into view over somewhat tight khaki shorts, rolled above the knee. The box is unloaded where the girl directs, and the worker leans up, looking off to the side at the girl. He’s.

Well he’s really hot, actually. You instinctively straighten up and close the car door, almost stupidly catching the tip of your tail with the damn thing. A sharp little fuck escapes before you catch yourself. When you look back up, he’s looking right at you. Uh. You swallow hard. Even from here you can see his fucking greener than green eyes glowing with a familiar fae light. A dryad, you note numbly. A tall, built dryad that is looking right fucking at you as you stare holes into him like a total goddamn creep. You’re about to tear your eyes away when the guy flashes you a beaming smile and winks. Your heart beat spikes, and you panic, pivoting sharply on one heel in the direction of the market. Shit oh shit oh shit. 

You spend about ten minutes actually shopping, and then another twenty on top of that pretending to be looking for some unknown item of grocery perfection. When your heartbeat goes back to normal and you start to feel like you’re just some pathetic loitering tool, you check out and leave. You’re fine, everything's cool. He probably won’t even notice your return. The solution is easy enough, just don't look at the fucking window. And you don’t. At least, not until you get to your car and there’s a little piece of paper tucked underneath one of the wipers. 

It’s a card for the new shop. SkaiaNet, Exotic Pets. On the front there’s the shop phone number and regular hourly shit and two names, Jade Harley and Jake English. Hm. 

You throw it in your bag and try not to give it another thought. You fail, and give it three or four more thoughts. It’s all you’ll probably think about for the rest of the night, actually.

As you buckle in, you make the mistake of looking up over your steering wheel straight into the damn window again. He’s there, in profile, talking animatedly to the girl, his hands trying their best to get his point across where words fail. Jade, you guess, and he must be Jake. They’re both tan, a pretty sandalwood olive color, black hair, tall. He’s probably taller than you. He’s certainly bigger than you, with broad shoulders and strong arms. You’ve never seen a dryad face to face, but you’d wager that green tint to his neck and forearms is some species of moss or peat? Hard to say. You would need a closer examination, of which you will not be pursuing any time soon.

You finally close your car door that’s been sitting open this entire time and the sound gets his attention, head whipping around away from the still talking young woman to your parking spot across the road. Your whole body goes stiff again. You look at one another, his head tilting to the side as he tries to study you through the combined force of his glasses, the windshield of your car, and your own dark shades. A car passes between you. Why are you such an anxious fuck?? You could just wave or something like a normal person, but you’re frozen on the spot.

Your body shrinks into the seat in a sad attempt to hide, shoulders pulled up to your ears, and you swallow hard. Okay time to dip out. You force your eyes off the dude and go to put the keys in the ignition. Instead, you drop them down between your feet like an idiot. In your rush to pick them up, you bounce your damn face off your steering wheel, pressing the sharp bridge of your glasses into your face, which causes the car horn to honk loudly. You're not sure what was more painful, the cut to your nose or your own deafening stupidity. You lean up, keys secured, and rub at your face, turning them in the ignition. Without thinking, because obviously you’re not using your fucking brain right now, you look at Jake again, who is nearly doubled over with laughter. 

Embarrassment creeps up your chest and swarms like agitated bees under your flushed skin, buzzing all the way up to the tips of your ears. Your mouth pulls into a thin line and you lift one hand, directing a fairly indecent gesture at the smarmy dryad with one finger. He redoubles his laughter and seems to actually choke, his companion, Jade, coming over to slap him on the back. Serves him the fuck right. You throw the car in reverse and back out, taking the rear exit so you can avoid being any closer to the shop than you already are.

Your heart pounds in your chest. You want to be angry, you really do, but the image of his smiling face in your mind keeps smashing it down. What the hell, is a cute boy really all it takes to wreck you these days? Horseshit. You take a deep breath and sigh, exhaling steam. It fills your vision and fogs up your windshield a sad three minutes down the road, forcing you to stop and remedy the stupid situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Awesome. 

It takes nearly an hour of driving around the area to get your temperature back to normal. You sit in the driver's seat for a minute, parked in front of your house, and run the embarrassing events of the day through your tired mind. You look over at the paper bags in your passenger seat. You really appreciate that the market you frequent is one of the few rare specimens that still offer paper as an option. You reach in the nearest bag and pull out the card. The front hasn’t changed, no surprise, so you flip it over to the opposite side. There, in wild but exceedingly legible writing, is a phone number and a goofy drawing of a winking face. Jake’s name is on the back as well, circled about fifteen times. Oh shit.


End file.
